


Not Even Meant to Be a Gesture, Really

by crookedashes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, a getting-into-a-relationship story, it's just cute really, plz tell me if I need to tag something else idk how to tag, post apocalypse-that-wasn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 10:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedashes/pseuds/crookedashes
Summary: It wasn’t something big that made Aziraphale snap. It wasn’t some grand gesture of Crowley’s—not the demon asking him to run away together, not him saving his corporation again, or even him saving some of his books. What made him snap was not romantic—there were no roses, chocolate, or date proposals involved. It was soft, simple, not even meant to be a gesture, really. And this was how it went.





	Not Even Meant to Be a Gesture, Really

It wasn’t something big that made Aziraphale snap. It wasn’t some grand gesture of Crowley’s—not the demon asking him to run away together, not him saving his corporation again, or even him saving some of his books. What made him snap was not romantic—there were no roses, chocolate, or date proposals involved. It was soft, simple, not even meant to be a gesture, really. And this was how it went.

Crowley entered his shop just as the angel was closing a brief 7-9 opening, a grocery bag in hand. He held it up as if in greeting, crossing over to the back to go up the stairs.

“Don’t feel like going out tonight, angel. Mind if I cook?”

Aziraphale hummed affirmatively before stopping in his tracks.

“You know how to cook?”

Crowley shrugged. “Warlock liked spending time in the kitchen, sometimes. ’S a little hard not to learn a bit.”

“You’re welcome to the kitchen, dear, but I must warn you I don’t have much in there.”

“’S alright; I don’t need much.” Oh, but he did need much. He just didn’t know it yet.

Crowley moved upstairs as Aziraphale continued to put everything back in order. The few customers who had come in had touched almost everything, to his endless frustration. He bustled about, and just as he put the last book back into place, Crowley’s voice came from upstairs.

“Dinner’s ready,” the redhead called. A smile curled Aziraphale’s lips as he slowly made his way up the stairs and into the kitchen. Two plates of baked salmon sat on the bar with sautéed asparagus and red-skinned potatoes, and a small fruit salad on the side.

“Oh, this looks lovely,” Aziraphale commented.

Crowley appeared from the kitchen, pulling off a red and black heart-patterned apron. He hung it on a hook that hadn’t been there a few moments earlier. The demon lifted an eyebrow.

“One could almost call it an act of charity,” the angel continued, and a grin tugged at his lips at the same time Crowley scowled.

“Just tempting an angel to gluttony,” he retorted. “That’ll look good in my report.”

“We don’t send in reports, not anymore,” the angel hummed, sitting down at one of the plush barstools.

“Right,” Crowley replied, taking his place next to his angel. They took their time with their food, talking and laughing and bantering between bites. When they were finished, Crowley snapped, and everything was as it was before he’d cooked. The redhead retrieved one of the less-special (for they were all special, but not equally so) bottles of wine from the wine cooler, and the two of them broke into it together, and then another, and then another until their heads spun and they were talking about increasingly ridiculous things.

“What is a platypus, tecno—tacni—really?” Crowley drawled, hissing as he shifted position until he was almost hanging off the seat upside-down.

“The humans have classified it as—as—“

“A mannal, mammon, the same as a cat, I know.” Crowley made a face. “What was She thinking?”

“I’m not—quite sure, dear boy. I wasn’t . . . consulted.” Aziraphale’s eyes drooped shut, fluttering as they opened again. It was so rare that he actually felt a strangely human need for sleep that it confused him a bit, and he pressed a hand into his face, groaning softly.

“Are you sleepy, angel?” Crowley questioned. “We’d better sober up.”

“You may,” Aziraphale responded. “I’m just—I’ll have a nap first.”

Crowley already had, and he made a face at the aftertaste. He trundled over to the angel, laying a gentle, cool hand on his shoulder.

“Not here—I’ll take you to your bed, then go home. That alright?”

Aziraphale hummed agreeably, reaching up to wrap slightly-wobbly arms around his neck. Crowley lifted the angel from the chair. Clutching his more-than-precious cargo to his chest, and trying to keep from jostling him much, Crowley made his way up the stairs and down the hall into Aziraphale’s bedroom. Crowley’s slender, snaky legs stepped over and around and between stacks of books, setting Aziraphale on the sheet after miracling the other sheet and blanket back to make room. And then he pulled the blankets back over Aziraphale, tucking him in without a word. Aziraphale saw the demon smile at him, just the slightest hint of fangs, and something deep, deep down inside Aziraphale snapped.

As Crowley turned away, Aziraphale reached out, hand wrapping around a section of Crowley’s black turtleneck to stop him from going. He suddenly felt much more sober and much less sleepy, and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

“Is there something else you need, angel?” Crowley asked, turning back as much as he could while Aziraphale was still clinging to the back of his turtleneck.

“Dearest to my heart,” Aziraphale whispered in awe as he stared at those yellow, serpentine, glowing eyes and the glinting fangs and the snake tattoo, “I love you.”

Crowley stilled, face going slack, and for a moment, a terrible moment, Aziraphale felt like he’d misunderstood millennia of gestures. Every affectionate glance, word left unsaid, sacrificial act—all were in doubt. But then, oh but then, Crowley spoke in the smallest, quietest voice.

“Do you mean it?” His voice wobbled, and Aziraphale’s fist slipped from Crowley’s turtleneck. The demon finished turning around, more through instinct than through thought.

“I would not have said it if I did not mean it, dear boy,” Aziraphale replied, reaching forward and letting his hands hover over Crowley’s hips, looking up at him as if praying to be allowed to grasp. Breath shuddered out of Crowley.

“I have loved you since the beginning,” the serpent whispered, less wily and more winded by Aziraphale’s confession. His hands covered Aziraphale’s and pressed them into his hips. Aziraphale pulled Crowley up to the edge of the bed, and one hand slid up, pressing into his back and tilting him down so that their faces were close, so close together.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, gaze darting down to rake over Crowley’s lips, so tempting and beautiful.

Crowley answered him by standing up on his toes to give himself a little extra height and pressing forward into the angel. Their lips meeting was electrified with the start of something new, and yet, to both of them, it felt like coming home as well. They broke apart for air after several minutes—or was it hours? They couldn’t tell—smiling like their lives were complete, but they weren’t. No, their lives weren’t complete yet.

Their life was only just beginning.


End file.
